


landscape

by abramdeath



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: 5+1 Things, Beaches, M/M, Weddings, format bc I Wanted To
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 06:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15791043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abramdeath/pseuds/abramdeath
Summary: It's one for the history books, he thinks dryly. Neil Josten vs. The Beach.





	landscape

**Author's Note:**

> for the amazing, beautiful, perfect, amazing and so so patient francesca!! im so sorry this is so much later than i intended, and i hope you enjoy. <3

**i.**

 

 

“Abram,” his mother calls, his name sweet on her lips and harmony with the gentle wind. He goes to her, as he always does and always will. She cups his face against the sea spray, rubs a thumb over the splotchy sunburn high on his cheek. He grimaced a little and she smiles teasingly down at him before a frown mars her face. “We have to go. Your father expects us home soon.” 

A pit forms in his stomach, swallows up the joy of the day. Feelings remnant from playing on the shore and waves lapping at his ankles swirl down a drain like dirty dishwater in his mind. He does his best not to pout since neither of his parents like that and tries for indifferent instead. “Can’t we stay a little while?” 

She sighs, and her hand falls from his face, the warmth of the moment melting like a candle in a furnace. The ocean spray on his face is now cold and harsh instead of the butterfly kisses it was earlier. He twists a hand into his boardshorts and looks into the ocean, watching the ebb of the waves. 

“One hour,” she announces suddenly, and he looks over startled. Her face is blank, but the downward pull to her mouth is gone. “I’m serious, Abram. One more hour, and then we’re in the car.” 

He grins at her and leaps forward to grab her arm, pulling her toward the ocean. She drags her feet playfully for a moment, and he groans loudly. He yanks her, yelling, “Come on, mom, we have to use all the wet sand before it’s gone!” 

She laughs, says something about how that’s not possible, and he ignores as he greedfully makes the biggest pile of sand he can. 

They do only stay for another hour, but he’s happy in the car home. He naps against the window, dreaming of sand castle towers and bubblegum pink waves. He holds onto the image of his mother’s smile, framed by the sun setting behind her and setting her hair on fire. 

 

 

**ii.**

 

It’s her hair that catches first. This is the worst thing he’s ever seen in the past sixteen horrible years: his mother’s head is aflame. He chokes on his breath, gasping desperately around panic and and gasoline and ash. The world is on fire, he’s bleeding from open wounds, and his mother is dead. 

His fingers are buried in the sand and for a terrible moment, he really thinks it’s ashes. Vomit rushes up his throat, and he can’t breathe, not around the panic, not around the bile, not around the twisted smell of the ocean and his mother’s burning body mingling. He spits, trying to rid himself of all of it all at once. He has a body to take care of. 

He stares at the flames pouring out the car, melting away her skin. He ignores the sounds of fire flickering and destroying everything and lets the waves crash over him, pull him away from this moment. 

It takes too long to burn down to her bones. He looks detachedly at the charred skull in a broken car. A broken body. Pieces of hair that didn’t burn. This is his mother. 

He stares in wonder at her finger bones. His mother was never particularly big; she was fairly short with roped muscle.  Like this, all the flesh and blood stripped away, she looks almost fragile. He wants to scream and cry, but if he starts now he doesn’t think he will ever stop. He wants to kill his father, take the horrible knowledge Nathan bestowed to him and turn it right back on him. He wants to run. 

He ignores the burning in his hands when he puts her body in his backpack. He ignores the smell of her singed corpse. He watches the horizon and lets the ocean guide him forward. 

Hours and years later, his knees give out and he falls onto the sand. He blinks, and he figures it’s as good a spot as any to bury her. Every grain of sand feels like bits of glass sticking in his skin. He digs as deep as he can, clawing into the sand. With a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed, he places her bones tenderly, showing her the most care than anyone had bothered to give her in her life. She wouldn’t have appreciated it, probably would have smacked him upside the head for the sentimality, but he can’t help it. The act makes every single one of his edges feel blurry and he sags back against the sand, willing for more strength. He hates how permanent this is. He has not been without his mother for longer than a few days time in his entire life, and she was what forced him to be stronger than he was. But he needs to get out of here, needed to get out of here yesterday, and he doesn’t have time for weakness. 

He looks up at the sky when he’s on the edge of the beach, where the sand meets dirt. Watching the stars, he wonders if his mother is somewhere out there now. It’s a stupid thought for stupid boys. He has lived long enough to know that there isn’t any salvation after death, especially not for his mother. Especially not for him. Nevertheless, he lets himself draw in peace for as long as he dares, breathing in the midnight air and sea salt. He swears he can still smell her. 

Neil Josten turns his back on the beach, and wishes his mother and Nathaniel goodbye. 

 

 

**iii.**

 

“You don’t have to do this,” Andrew says drily, a weak attempt at being gentle when he truly couldn’t care less about this facet of Neil’s past. He’s still trying though, and that’s all that matters to Neil. 

He cuts a glare back, relieved to be distracted from his spiraling thoughts and attempting to front. “I know that,” he spits, irritation getting the best of him. 

Andrew raises an unimpressed eyebrow, and holds up his mug in mock salute. “Good for you, Josten.” 

Neil puffs out an annoyed breath, and leans back against the wall. They’re both sitting on Andrews desk, unlit cigarettes put down since Neil full-body flinched at the sound of the lighter. Andrew doesn’t want to be having this conversation any more than Neil does, and is only having it to, in his words, “prevent a future meltdown in front of everyone else.” 

He taps his fingers against the desk in an off-kilter beat. The Foxes are having an all-expenses paid vacation to the beach, courtesy of Allison. They vaguely know about his mothers death from when he briefly explained it to them, but they don’t know the trauma that came with it. It'll be one for the history books, he thinks dryly. Neil Josten vs. the Beach. He’s sure they would cancel the trip altogether if he explained it, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to go to the beach. He wants to feel sand on his skin without having the painful reminder of his mother dying. 

“So?” Andrew prompts out of nowhere, guiding Neil out of his thoughts. 

He suppresses a groan since he can’t drag any sympathy out of Andrew and holds up a hand instead, raising his eyebrows in a silent yes or no? 

Andrew purses his lips but nods, and tilts his head into Neil’s hand when he touches his hand against Andrews face. 

“I want to go,” Neil decides, with eye contact heavy enough that he starts feeling uncomfortable. Andrew doesn’t break it; trying to discern if Neil is lying. “I do. And I’ll probably freak out when we’re there. But I need to do this.” 

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say as Andrew immediately pushes his arm away. “I will not bare witness to you purposefully triggering yourself for a vacation,” he sneered. “You do not need to do anything. This isn’t worth it. Think of yourself for once, dear martyr.” 

Neil scoffs at him. “Thanks, Bee, glad we scheduled a session,” he says scornfully. “I don’t need you to psychoanalyze me. I’m not doing this for anybody else; I’m doing this for me. I gave up being a martyr last year, remember?” 

Andrew stares at him, jaw twitching. Neil doesn’t know if he’s mad or not, or why he even would be. He guesses that they’re fighting, but he doesn’t know when it started. 

“I never forget,” he says baldly. “Stop talking around the issue.” 

Neil slaps his hand against the desk. He’s frustrated, at Andrew and his pretentious roundabout sentences, at his mother for dying and leaving him alone, at why this is even becoming a problem. He doesn’t understand why Andrew cares so much what he’s doing. He knows that Andrew cares about him. He just doesn’t get why he cares about this part of him. 

“Stop making this an issue. I’m fine about this, Andrew. I want to get over it, I don’t want to be haunted by this for the rest of my life and this is the only way I know how to get over it. If it’s such an issue for you, then don’t come.” 

The truth still burns on the way out, runs his throat raw and makes his words sound ragged. He wants to look out the window and the setting sky but he stares at Andrew instead, memorizing the small moles and freckles that pepper his face. 

He regrets very suddenly telling Andrew not to come. It was a stupid thing to say, borne of the simmering temper inherited by his father. Neil isn’t sure he could handle his mental state at the beach without Andrew. Letting all the Foxes do that for him would be too much for him to handle. He knows that Andrew knows this, but he can also be incredibly petty at times. 

Andrew flicks Neils nose before turning and jumping off the desk. “Nice try, martyr boy. We’re leaving tomorrow.” 

Neil holds in his sigh of relief, but drops his guard. He nods his assent and dangles his hand in the air in front of them. 

Andrews eyes flick to him and then moving back forward. He wipes his hand on his jeans very conspicuously before grabbing Neil’s hand, and ignores the huff of laughter that follows. 

 

 

**iv.**

 

Sea salt peppers his face. There’s sand in his hair. His mother is dead. But he is Neil Abram Josten, starting striker for the Palmetto State Foxes; not a no-named runaway on the beaches of California. 

Nicky has an arm wrapped around his and Aaron’s shoulders, talking about some new shark movie while Aaron points how unlikely a shark attack really is. Neil isn’t afraid of sharks and doesn’t care for movies much, but he finds he doesn’t mind talking with them. 

He slides a hand under the sand, pushing back the memories of ash stuck to his fingers. He unearths a piece of a sand dollar, cracked down the middle. 

“Neil,” Nicky prompts, leaning into Neil’s side. “What do you think is more likely: getting attacked by a shark or being struck by lightning?” 

Aaron groans and scoffs at the same time, a noise that only he seems to be able to make. “It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks! It’s science—”

“Science, schmience. Neil. We need answers,” he says, clapping to each syllable. 

Neil thinks it over for a second. “Well, isn’t it more about the survival rate of either? I feel like you hear more about shark attack survivors than being struck by lightning.” 

Nicky whoops and shoves at Aaron. “See!” 

“See what, Nicky? That didn’t solve anything!” 

Neil laughs a little, elation welling up like a balloon. It's ridiculous, to think that the last time he was on a beach, his whole world was ending. And only a few years later he's talking about shark attacks and lightning strikes with his friends— his family on a Florida beach. The juxtaposition is almost too much, but all he has to do is look over at the Foxes and know that he's okay. 

Andrew catches his eye from where he and Renee are standing with their feet in the water and raises an eyebrow. Neil grins at him, and is absolutely drawn in by the faintest of pink on Andrew's cheekbones. He gets up, giving off some vague excuse as he bee-lines toward Andrew, overcome with an emotion he doesn't know how to define yet. 

Renee sees him coming over and smiles, ducking further into the water toward where Allison is teaching Dan how to swim properly. 

"Hey," he says, a little breathless even though he's barely sweating and only walked twenty feet at most. 

Andrew notices and scowls, shoving a finger into Neil's cheek. "You are insufferable." 

Neil grins at him again. He doesn't know why he's so— happy— but he doesn't want it go away. He feels like he's floating. "Can I hold your hand?" 

Andrew makes an obnoxious groan-scoff not unsimilar to Aaron's. Maybe it's a family thing. "God, you sound like you're in fucking middle school. Yes, you can hold my hand, Josten." 

He does, and it's amazing. Casual touches are slowly joining their repetoire and it makes Neil feel like a pot boiling over. Andrew's hand is firm, calloused, his skin is slightly dry. But he's still so gentle, despite the crookedness of his left middle finger, and the faint scars on his knuckles. Neil tries to return that gentleness; he holds Andrew's hand like it is the entire world in his palm. In a way, he thinks it is. 

 

 

**v.**

 

He knew they were going to happen, but it still fucking blows to wake up in an unfamiliar bed after a nightmare and think he was still on the run. He hadn't quite anticipated a flashback, so when someone says his name he's already slinking into a defensive position and backing towards the door, blind with panic and fury and the lack of light at four in the morning. 

"Neil," Andrew says, tired and voice gruff, which immediately throws him for a loop because Andrew shouldn't be around him when his mother is here, Andrew shouldn't be here at all— "Your name is Neil Abram Josten. Your parents are dead. My name is Andrew Minyard, and a year ago I promised to keep you safe. We're in a hotel in Sanibel, Florida. Are you with me?" 

He blinks and nods, sagging back against the wall like a puppet with its strings cut. His mother is dead. He swears he can taste ashes in his mouth, that he's choking on them, but then Andrew steps forward with highly telegraphed moments and wraps a hand around his throat. 

"You are not getting enough air. You need to calm down and breathe, Neil," he informs him, voice carefully detached as if he were talking about the weather. 

Neil recognizes that he's right, as awareness slams into him full-force. His chest is tight and his breaths sound raspy and wheezed. Black spots are dancing in his vision, born from panic and his increasing lack of proper air. He scrabbles at the carpet underneath him, looking to ground himself. Andrew notices and gently pulls his hand up to his hair. He mutters, "Above the neck only." 

Neil freezes. Andrew's hair is short and thick, soft to the touch. Nothing like his mothers thin and split-end hair. Nothing like what was left half-burned to her skull. Slowly, he threads a shaking finger through Andrew's hair, breathing in as slowly and long as he can. 

He hiccups, restarting his breathing process, when Andrew's breath hitches slightly at the fingertips trailing the side of his face. Neil forces himself to look into Andrew's eyes, one of them almost white and reflecting moonlight and the other cast in the pitch black of the room. He slowly brings up his other hand, dragging it through the shorter hair on the back of Andrew's head, while tracing his bone structure. The hand around his throat burns, in the adrenaline filled way of gasping for sweet air after an incredible exy play. He bows his head forward slightly, an invitation. 

Andrew takes it, bumping foreheads with him gently. He slides his hand down from Neil's throat, over the front of his chest before falling into a loose grip of his shirt. He can hear waves rising and ebbing onto the beach, and Andrew breathing measured against his face, and his heartbeat loud and foreboding in his ear. 

He wants to say I'm sorry and I love you, but he knows both are the wrong thing to say. One is too heavy for the fractured picture he paints; the other is too off-handed and meaningless. 

"You're a mess," Andrew says, breaking the silence in a quiet voice. 

Neil just nods, not trusting himself to speak. He rubs the pad of his thumb across the shell of Andrew's ear, and settles finally at his jaw, fingers spread slightly onto his cheek. His other hand grips the back of Andrew's neck. 

He can never stay quiet for long. "Can we kiss?" 

Andrew draws back a little so they can look at each other without being cross-eyed. "I don't think you have the agency for that right now." 

Neil lets his hand slide to the front of Andrew's throat, his thumb gently pressing into the hollow. Not enough to affect his breathing, but Andrew still coughs on a choked off moan of sorts. "I'm doing okay now. Just kissing?" 

Andrew purses his lips a little in distaste even as he's leaning forward. "Just kissing. Hips and down off limits. Everywhere else is free game." 

It sends a thrill through Neil's body that he ignores. They're only kissing right now, and he's not really interested in going farther at the moment anyways.  

When their lips meet, it's always a catalyst. An avalanche. A million phenomena crushed into one moment. He melts into Andrew, a hand on his chest, moving onto his back, Andrew's hand in his hair and yanking him back. He breathes harshly into his mouth before Andrew is doing something absolutely filthy with his tongue and he whines and arches his back up. 

"We should— ungh, stop before this turns into more than just kissing, yeah?" he says, tilting Andrews face down so he can see his post-makeout expression. Andrews pupils dilate minutely, and Neil grins razor sharp. The moonlight is still shining brightly, almost unnatural and turning everything ethereal. Andrew's hair is white blond in the light, hanging loosely and slightly ruffled from sleep and wandering hands. His lips are still parted, the afterthought of Neil's tongue keeping them pink. 

Andrew breath slows, and he gives Neil a lingering look as he pushes himself up so he's hovering over his body. His arms are on either side of Neil's head, almost leaving the impression of being caged in if were anyone else but Andrew. Neil can feel his entire body go pliant, his expression softening as he watches Andrew. 

"Neil," he says with an uncomfortable twist to his mouth, incisor catching the moonlight. "I don't even have a percentage for how much I hate you right now." 

And he's saying one thing, and meaning the other. He says,  _I hate you_ , and Neil can feel everything in his body light up in response because he thinks he loves him too.

"Yeah?" Neil asks, reaching his arms up to cross behind his head. "Hard same." 

Andrew coughs on a laugh, and turns it into a scowl. He balances his body carefully with one hand so he can use the other to touch his fingertips against Neil's cheek, so careful as if he's handling something fragile. Like something could  _drop_ , and shatter this moment into a thousand fractals of moonlight and kisses and beach waves and— an emotion warily named love. Andrew's hand pauses as he thinks over what he's going to say. His eyes darken, and the hand against Neil's cheek starts to tremble. "College has been detrimental to your vocabulary."

Neil purses his lips a little, because Andrew is obviously ignoring the heavy weight of the air around them. "Says you. Tell me you hate me one more time?" 

Andrew lowers himself to his elbows, and ghosts a kiss over Neil's knifed cheek. "I hate you." Another press of lips, on his other cheek. "I hate you so much that it's unfathomable." Neil's breath catches, and he watches Andrew with a new kind of reverence of sorts at the vulnerability. Lips graze his forehead. "I don't think anyone has hated anybody as much as I hate you." He trails across the bridge of his nose. "In all of the universes. In the history of the whole world." His voice is hoarse and shaking now as he says, " _Neil_." Everything swells up between them, three years of promises and keys and trust frozen into this one moment. Andrews lips are against his, one breath away from kissing. He says, "Marry me." 

The confusion is like a bucket of ice water on his thoughts. Neil laughs breathlessly and slightly hysterical, pulling back a little. "I—  _what?_ Andrew." 

Andrew pushes himself up onto his hands again. His face is blank and his eyes are on fire. "Too many exy balls to the head again? You heard me." 

Neil shoves at him half-heartedly, thoughts racing. "You know how I feel about marriage," he says, deflecting. A part of him desperately wants, the other cringes back. He's caught in a spotlight, one foot in front of the line and the other behind, adrenaline in his veins like he's in overtime. 

Andrew sits back, resting against Neil's thighs. He grabs Neil's hands and pulls him up so that they're face to face again. "Do not overthink it," he says simply. A hand on Neil's, another on the back of his neck, hazel eyes gone pale in the light, the clench of his jaw betraying his coolness, the encompassing trust between them. Slowly, and with consideration, "Like it's always been: yes, or no?" 

It all falls into place. A thousand fractals piecing into one. It's as easy as breathing, like this. He thinks of a rooftop lit by the sunlight and casting orange light onto them. He thinks of a dorm carpet against his back, hands above his head and desire another addiction to add to the list. He thinks of a locker room, of  _thank you, you were amazing_ , of feeling caught in a web. He breathes, he breathes, he says, "Yes." 

 

 

 

**\+ i.**

 

The sunset lights his hair on fire. The shadows on his face are dramatic and cast in orange and pink. His tux is crisp and all-black, an orange dahlia in his breast-pocket matching the orange bow tie at his neck. He is the most beautiful thing that Neil has ever seen. 

Matt's voice is slightly droning as he reads from the hastily printed ceremony script he downloaded as soon as he finished his ordaining course online. It's easy enough to block out; everything dulls in comparison to Andrew Minyard. His face is slightly scrunched in annoyance from the sand in his dress shoes, but he looks relaxed. 

Matt finally asks them to say their vows, to which both of them raise a middle finger up in the air. Wymack groans from where he's standing a few feet away, mumbling something about jackasses while everyone else laughs. The whole ceremony is— a mess. The whole week has been. Of course, beach weddings tend to be messy, which Andrew had argued about for months before relenting to one if he got to choose where the reception would be. 

Neil smiles at Andrew, wide and unbeholden. His hair is striking and expertly styled, glowing in the sunlight. He looks peaceful in a way he usually isn't; every inch of his body lax and content. His tux is more traditional: black jacket, white shirt, with a black cummerband and an orange bow tie, his own dahlia at his breast-pocket. 

Neil breathes, the salt air comforting where it once was compounding. Matt turns to him, his face twitching despite his attempts to remain collected. "Do you, Neil Josten, take Andrew Minyard as your lawfully wedded husband?" he asks, voice shaking. 

Neil grins, feels like his face will split with how happy he is. He hooks a pinky into Andrew's. "I do." 

"And do you, Andrew Minyard, take Neil Josten to be your lawfully wedded husband?" 

Andrew softens, mouth slack as he stares at Neil. "I do." 

Matt barely makes it through his next sentence before Neil grabs Andrew by his jacket, and Andrew is gripping his face between his hands, and they're a supernova. A constellation of trust, and kisses, and  _love._

"I love you," Andrew says, sounding slightly annoyed and wholly enamored as he thumbs Neil's chin. 

And Neil is— he has problems with marriage. And commitment. And  _love._ But he looks at his husband, his golden eyes reflecting a million sunsets, a million secrets, a million kisses, his lips slightly twitched into the smile-not-smile he wears, and says, "I love you, too." 

 

**Author's Note:**

> hahahah there is no reason this should have taken me so long to write other than i am a garbage human and a son of a beach ANYWAYS francesca is amazing and also a fantastic writer!! find her @ whenwordsflyoffthepage on both tumblr and ao3 <3  
> a few Notes:  
> \- i meant for there to be 384558945 more scenes and just, Didn't, so the scenes are a lil :/  
> \- planning on writing a fic just for the wedding tbh  
> \- kevin was absolutely neils best man and cried when neil asked him  
> \- aaron was andrews.  
> \- wymack, abby and bee walked them down the aisle :')  
> \- matt 100% took an ordaining course the night before the wedding and probably technically isn't even officially a celebrant but 2 witnesses law and all that so  
> \- it took me an hour to figure out what their tuxes would look like : )  
> \- planning the wedding was a mess but andrew & neil wanted to do it all by themselves bc, They're Nerds  
> \- king and sir are flower girls  
> \- somehow their intended-to-be-an-intimate-wedding turned into an episode of bridezillas with neil and andrew both being a bridezilla 
> 
> ANYWAYS, follow me @ abramdeath on tumblr fools


End file.
